A Different Species Entirely
by Streets of Fire
Summary: Boys will be boys. After being shooed out of the middies' berth, Blakeney has a different type of question for Maturin. K if you're offended by old timey... insults. I personally prefer them. Oneshot, no pairings. First MaC fic.


A/N I got the inspiration from… various things… Including an original story and life in private school.

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The midshipmen's berth was no more than a corner, an after thought next to the stairs leading to the deck. There was a door (which had been hanging off its hinges since the first run in with the _Acheron_), two rotted out steps, and five knee-high wooden trunks pushed up against five ratty bunks nailed to the floor. It was not spacious and it was nowhere to keep a secret of any sort. 

Although it was an odd occurrence that all five of the Surprise's midshipmen would be in their berth all at the same time, from time to time, the Watch God's (i.e who ever had set up the watches, usually Pullings) left all of them idle and sitting on their bunks or on their way to be in said state.

When left to their own devices, the five young men usually ended up reverting to their 'land-selves', as Hollom had once named it. They were no longer junior officers on a man-o-war, hurtling toward an enemy vessel so they could pummel loads of metal and powder into the bodies of other men. They were moody school boys, playing school yard politics and from time to time, being incredibly lascivious. When a higher ranking officer would enter to give instructions, they'd snap to attention, but prod and snicker like school lads until the 'land-self' wore off. If, heaven forbid, the Captain should happen upon them, they'd immediately jump back into their sea-skins and throw whatever reading material they'd been hawing over under a bunk (or sometimes onto Hollum's).

Initially, Blakeney had been looking forward to spending sometime in his 'land-self'. But upon entering the room, he found three of his fellows already bent over a book, their trunks pulled into a tight triangle and their backs pointing towards the door, an almost sure sign they were reading something that weren't supposed to be. Every once in awhile, there was a burst of giggles and claps on the shoulder all around. He assumed they were reading 'Laugh and Be Fat', a book of dirty jokes that Boyle had snuck aboard. But when he made his way over to the trio, the book was promptly snapped shut and all three boys fell silent.

"Oh, come on," Blakeney said, craning over Calamy to see the book.

"No," Calamy replied, swinging an arm behind him to push away his friend.

"You're too young," Williamson snapped, grabbing the book from Calamy and opening it back up to their last page, "Give it, I want to know what happens."

"I think we DO know what happens," snickered Boyle.

Will resented the age card being used on him. He was only two years younger than Calamy and a few months shy of Boyle and Williamson. But younger was younger as far as they were concerned. He shot a look to Hollom, who sat with his legs propped up on his trunk. The older man just shrugged and turned back to his reading. He was a nice enough fellow, but a little scared and a little slow. Calamy and the others always teased Will for being nice to Hollom, but no amount sailor-ly superstition was enough to cancel out a childhood of pious nannies and philosophizing older brothers.

"Where'd you get it, anyway." If the subject was changed, they'd eventually let him into their secret.

"We nicked it from Killick," Calamy sighed. Williamson held up the spine of the book to show Blakeney before Calamy batted it down. " Now go away. Draw a bird or something."

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His work as a spy had taught the good doctor Maturin to know when he was being watched. A human instinct alerted everyone but in a dangerous field of work, that instinct was heightened.

His work as a doctor taught him to know when someone is looking for an answer.

"Come in Mr. Blakeney." His star and sometimes pupil was too polite to come barging in the way Aubrey often did and too reverent to knock, in fear of interrupting some earth shattering discovery. Alas, not many were bound to happen in the middle of the ocean.

"Sorry sir." Blakeney pulled awkwardly at his forelock. So few men in the service, Stephen found, could find their bearings with a civilian.

"No worries. My door is always open," Dr. Maturin took off his glasses and looked up at the youth, who was now perched on a lone stool in the corner. There was a long silence. "Do you have a question for me?" So often the one-armed boy did, bursting with a question about whatever fish had been hauled onto the deck or about the fungus growing on a window or something like that.

"Dr. Maturin," he started, sighing in frustration, "You know a lot of things about a lot of things, right? Not just medicine and naturalism?"

"Is that your question?" Maturin couldn't help but laugh at it.

"Well, no," he squinted a little, as if it would help see his question better, "But this ones a little different than… my normal ones, sir."

"A man can't call himself a man unless he knows many things about many things." The young boy hesitated at this, grinning slightly at his own words reworked.

"What's a… 'Red Demimonde'?" The doctor blanched at this.

"That's…. a different species entirely."

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A/N Ahahaha. I make me laugh. I think this might be my favorite stories I've ever written. A demimonde is a courtesan or a prostitute. We can all thank Word Thesaurus for that little tid bit. 


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